


The Art of Allowing

by oninoshirosaki



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oninoshirosaki/pseuds/oninoshirosaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>[1] The song mentioned in this story is <i>Breathe</i> by Bon Jovi.</p><p>[2] For <b><a href="http://himenojigoku.livejournal.com/">Ame-chan,</a></b> for her prompt : <i>Tsuna takes everyone on vacation.</i></p>
    </blockquote>





	The Art of Allowing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ominous_Rain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ominous_Rain/gifts).



> [1] The song mentioned in this story is _Breathe_ by Bon Jovi.
> 
> [2] For **[Ame-chan,](http://himenojigoku.livejournal.com/)** for her prompt : _Tsuna takes everyone on vacation._

Sometimes, you find yourself staring into the refrigerator; not really hungry, but unable to stop looking.

Your body feels sluggishly heavy, as if there's millions of tiny weights hanging from your flesh, the way you dangled your dynamite from little hooks once, sent them Belphegor's way. Tension which pulls your every muscle taut, bone-deep weariness that makes your limbs sag, worn like your first - and only - skin.

There's a complicated knot set precisely at the central point between your shoulders which you can't undo. You don't know _how._ You probably _wouldn't_ even if you _did._

Your soul - if there's any of it left for redemption - feels empty, like your stomach _should_ be, but _isn't._

It makes you want to reach for the bottles of beer - maybe one, maybe _all_ of them - on the shelf next to the peanut butter and the brie.

But you shouldn't. You _shouldn't._

Alcohol fucks with your senses; and in _this_ world - _your_ world - you can't afford any mistakes. 

You've made too damn many already.

So it's the soft sound of the door being shut, the melody of the coffee can being opened, doors and windows and all that shit. You make yourself coffee that's bitter (like you are), strong (like you need to be).

And then, it's back to work. Because there's _always_ work to be done, even when you're feeling _empty, empty, empty._

 _This_ is your life.

\--

You hate waking up in a bed that isn't yours.

Doesn't matter how many times you do it, it's not something you find yourself getting used to. Never mind that you've slept in many places you never learned to call _home,_ never mind that you haven't slept in your _own_ bed for so long, you've forgotten what it's supposed to feel like.

Take _this_ bed, for instance - the one you're lying in right now. Its mattress is soft (the kind that makes you not want to get up) as any lie, hard (the kind that doesn't make you feel like it's trying to eat you alive) as any blow. In all technical aspects, it is the _perfect_ bed.

But you _hate_ it anyway, because it isn't _yours._

There is a subtle scent of lavender reaching your nose, and light in your eyes where it shouldn't be - the source of which is a still-lit lamp on the nightstand to your left. Beside the lamp is your cellphone which has nine-fifteen and a rapidly dying battery.

You're wearing bed-mussed hair, ridiculously expensive silk pajamas, and eight hours of deep, uninterrupted slumber. There are no meetings to schedule, no negotiations to be made, nobody to kill. 

There's nothing to _do,_ and that fact _disturbs_ you.

Because it is in _this house_ that the Tenth needs no one but his own wife by his side. It is on _this weekend_ that you are afforded freedom you are often given, yet always refuse. 

It is _disconcerting_ when you have nothing to worry about; and that makes you feel _unneeded._

_Abandoned._

It is _here_ that you are _nothing._

\--

In this room is another bed on the other side of the nightstand. On it, Yamamoto sleeps sitting up. His rectangular black-framed glasses remain perched on his nose. His head is bowed in _that_ way, which you _know_ will make his neck hurt like _fuck_ when he wakes up.

On his lap is an opened book. You don't know what its title is, but there's highlighted text on the page, dogears and scribbles in the margins. 

This portion of the room is bathed brightly in false light, despite the pockets of sunrays stealing through thinly-curtained windows and warming spots on the ground.

You wonder how Yamamoto can sleep like this. You loathe - _envy_ \- him for it. 

How does he not _feel_ it - this restlessness thrumming madly somewhere beneath your bones; something like quiet, something like _too fucking **loud.**_ It's got your teeth grinding like insanity; your lips, fingers, _soul_ itching for a cigarette you aren't allowed to have.

The thing is, you're not _used_ to _quiet._ Your whole life's a series of gunshots and explosions, passionate vows of devotion, negotiations argued, made, broken with no pauses.

You're not _meant_ to know what _quiet_ \- what _peace, sleep, **stop**_ \- feels like. You're not supposed to understand what it's like to _mean, represent, **be**_ nothing.

Only, everything's so damn _quiet_ here, even in all this brightness. It makes your head ache, like that line in that song, makes your heart race like you're silently _freaking._

And you haven't got _one fucking clue_ what to _do._

So you sit on the edge of your bed - hands clasped between your knees, soles of your feet resting on cool linoleum - and watch Yamamoto sleep.

\--

It is an aberrant thing, being able to _breathe._

The air is so different here. It smells like the sea, like an endless summer. It makes you want to curl your lip upwards in an amused smirk, laugh at the weirdness of it all. Maybe you _would,_ too, if you could summon the energy for it. 

_Funny,_ you think, how the air can smell so different, even though you're still in the same country. It's _peace_ in place of _adrenaline,_ _warmth_ and _comfort_ in lieu of _blood_ and _steel_ and _gunpowder;_ pressure and tension like a tightly coiled spring forcefully compressed in a too-narrow box. 

The atmosphere makes you lazy - _lethargic_ \- like vacationing in an unpolluted countryside in a foreign land.

It's a strange, strange thing - _atypical_ \- like the way Sasagawa Kyouko sits now on the Tenth's right, where _you_ should be. She smiles at you in greeting - beguiling innocence - but does not move one inch from her spot.

And for the first time in twelve years, you feel like you could really hate her.

\--

 _There is something wrong with this picture,_ you think, when you find yourself seated at the breakfast table across the anomaly known as Rokudou Mukuro.

The Mist - _the,_ but not _Vongola's, **never**_ Vongola's - sits sideways in his chair, elbow propped on the polished marble tabletop, narrow chin resting on his palm. His hair - dark like midnight, silky like a seductive jazz song, and long enough to rival Squalo's - is pulled back into a tight French braid. His shirt is crisp, unblemished white - the kind Xanxus always wears - and unbuttoned at the sleeve.

His only acknowledgment of your presence is a brief, sidelong glance in your direction - fleeting like a whisper, intense like flesh-melting heat. It's akin to being observed by a piranha in a tiny fishbowl; if piranhas had red eyes with numbers on them. You never knew a single eye could be so expressive, especially one that isn't even _human._

Mukuro's gaze does not linger on you - just half a second, really; enough to note your presence, not enough to _care_ \- and his lips do not stop moving; bending and shaping around words (barely audible even this close, even to your unnaturally sharp ears) delivered in dulcet tones, like sweet promises of a serpent, intended only for his companion's knowledge.

His conversation partner is Xanxus - responding in equally quiet sentences, but _responding,_ nonetheless. 

It never fails to shock you, even after all this time. A loquacious Xanxus is as foreign a concept as _Squalo_ having nothing to say. You've always had him pegged as the taciturn type - years upon years have done nothing to change that perception. So it surprises you every time (like Hibari's kindness or Lambo's strength or Yamamoto's insightful moments), these deep conversations with Mukuro or Squalo or the Bucking Horse; sometimes _Yamamoto,_ too.

Xanxus - as far as _you're_ concerned - is a _bastard._ He sits idly at the _other_ head of this long table, evidently safe in his own skin, radiating an orgulous aura that's heavy enough to fill this room - this entire _house._ It's _asphyxiating_ \- something like dying, something like _cut a hole in my windpipe, cause I can't fucking **breathe.**_

It makes you want to shove a stick of dynamite down his throat (lit fuse and all), carve his face off his skull with a dinner knife.

A table should _not_ have two heads. Neither should a Family.

Yeah, Xanxus is a _bastard,_ and Rokudou Mukuro is far, far _worse._

Guileful and manipulative, so supercilious and condescending that he makes _Hibari Kyouya_ look like a nice guy. Mukuro is an unfathomable, inextricable enigma; and _that_ knowledge bothers you almost as badly as any infraction against the Tenth.

You don't know _what_ it is with these two, never found out _how_ or _when_ or _why_ this inexplicable relationship formed - a pair so mismatched like Mukuro's eyes, that fit together like parts of a gun, like jagged little shards of a once-broken trident.

It _irks_ you, the way Mukuro's always part of this Family, yet never on your side. The way he offers assistance, projects _loyalty_ \- _camaraderie_ \- to the wrong leader.

Sometimes, it feels like their bond transcends innumerable _lifetimes._ Sometimes, you feel like their history extends further than that of Vongola itself.

There is a pause in the conversation - it goes nearly unnoticed until you realize Mukuro has turned to look at _you,_ ophidian eyes and deleterious smile that's just _this_ side of _fucking **creepy.**_

Haru sets a bowl of _wakame udon_ on the table in front of you, but you're not hungry anymore.

\--

This extravagant beach house is situated on higher ground - a _hill_ of some sort. A single path - wide enough to accommodate two regular-sized vehicles side by side, carved through rock and earth and grass - stretches from the bottom of the hill to the main compound of the house.

The backyard extends into a rocky cliff which overlooks the ocean. It is on the edge of _this_ cliff that Superbi Squalo sits, shoulders hunched forward and wrists resting on his knees, legs dangling perilously off the edge. His silver mane is screwed into a messy updo, pinned in place by a chopstick. His waif-thin frame - the cause of which you've always believed is _stress,_ but Yamamoto frequently argues he was just _born_ that way - is clad in a black and gray Holding Mercury t-shirt and frayed blue jeans, in place of his usual fur-lined uniform.

His beloved sword is conspicuously absent - the only thing in that left hand is a Peace cigarette hanging loosely between his metal fingers.

Sitting here like this, seemingly at ease, Squalo looks so... _normal,_ and deceivingly harmless.

The thing about Superbi Squalo, though, is that you don't _like_ him (and it's _not_ because he's always stealing Yamamoto's attention - you're not _that_ petty).

But Squalo _is_ \- out of _everyone_ in Vongola, and most _annoyingly_ so - the one you can relate to the _most,_ and _that_ pisses you off more than Lambo on a bad day.

Standing here on the edge, next to him, _watching_ him - it makes you irritated and curious all at once. You stare at him for a long time - if he's discomfited by your attention, he does nothing to display it - before remembering _why_ you came out here in the first place.

So you reach into your jacket pocket, withdrawing the white pack of cigarettes and tapping it thrice against your palm. Your thumb absently brushes the blue letters adorning the box; it makes you half-smirk, half-smile. You wonder if Squalo smokes Peace just to be contrary. For all your differences, you're actually - to your utmost chagrin, and dear _God,_ you'd sooner run _naked_ through the overcrowded streets of Namimori's shopping district, than admit it out loud - a lot alike. 

You're quick to light a stick yourself, slow to savor it. When you do, it feels like _home,_ tastes like _freedom._

_Freedom._

_That's_ a concept Squalo appears to get better than anyone, and that fact _confounds_ you. You don't understand how he could be _free_ doing what _you_ do. You don't get how he could know freedom with _Xanxus_ as his pride. 

You exhale, bluish-gray clouds that look so much like mist, so much like an illusion. "What are you doing out here?"

For the first time since you came out here, Squalo looks up at you. His silver-flecked irises look strange - _confused,_ as if you've just spoken to him in Russian. Maybe you _did._ You're _good_ at it, and it weirds you out that you know he _isn't._ You know _way_ too much about him, too much more than you'd like.

Squalo tilts his head in the direction of the beach house. "Can't smoke in there."

 _"No smoking in the house,"_ the Tenth had mentioned - _ordered_ \- the day before, looked at you pointedly when he did.

You'd secretly felt that was unfair. It's not like _you're_ the only one here who smokes.

Still, Squalo clearly didn't get the question. 

It makes you want to strangle him, grab him and shake him so violently, that his bones might shatter under the force. It makes you want to scream, _"How could you be so calm about this?!? Why aren't you **freaking out?!?** "_

You wanna know why he's out here - _alone_ \- instead of by Xanxus's side, as he _ought_ to be. You wonder if he feels as unneeded as you.

Only... you _can't_ give voice to those thoughts. _Vulnerability is death._ It's what you've always religiously believed in, and _damned_ if you're gonna look like a pussy in front of _him,_ of all people. So instead, you scoff and say, "Since when did _you_ start caring about what my Boss wants?"

Squalo exhales, shaping perfect smoke rings, like those guys in the commercials. He's not looking at you, but you can still _hear_ the frown in his voice. "This isn't for Sawada."

\--

There was a time once, when you were twenty, when you lived in the Varia castle. 

Yamamoto had been a part of them - you've always hated that, never really _forgave_ him for it - and the Tenth had ordered you to find out how things were going.

You remember Yamamoto cautioning you - eyes deadly serious, voice heavy with warning - to keep your smoking only within the confines of your own bedroom.

 _"Xanxus hates cigarettes,"_ he had said, as if it was supposed to _mean_ something, like it was supposed to _matter._

You remember running into Squalo often - in the garden, on the patio, on the rooftop - every time you went out for a smoke.

You _remember._

\--

And then there's Hibari Kyouya - dressed impeccably in what is _obviously_ a terribly expensive suit - standing in the driveway with a cellphone glued to his ear, as if he does not comprehend the meaning of _vacation._

You've never felt a greater kinship to him in your _life._

\--

Lunchtime is a _corny as hell_ backyard barbecue. Meat on the grill, beer in the cooler, paper plates which are _impossible_ to carve a steak on - like a scene straight out of a cheesy American movie.

 _It's okay,_ you think, pushing the partially-eaten hamburger meat around your plate with a stainless steel fork (no plastic cutlery for _you,_ thanks very much), _The Mafia **should** do **cheesy** every once in a while._

Everyone's here - except Xanxus and Squalo, Hibari and Mukuro, no real surprises there - in this too-large-to-be-regular backyard; feasting, chattering, laughing their fucking _asses_ off. 

And you? Well, _you_ like to sit away from the crowd and just _watch._

Turns out you have more in common with Hibari than you realized.

Sometimes, you feel like you're that cliché - _on the outside looking in,_ like a voyeur constantly peeking over the wooden fence of his neighbor's yard. It's a fascinating thing - _observing._ Because no matter how many times you find yourself watching the same thing - like reality on repeat - you unfailingly uncover something new. 

Like _this moment_ \- watching Lambo seated on a pristine lawn chair, complaining about how there are no girls to pick up on the beach. It makes you think about the candy, the love letters, the silly little trinkets he often brings home - gifts from the manifold ladies trying to win his affection.

You watch I-Pin next to him, rolling her eyes in a longanimous fashion. You think about the dragon tattoo on her thigh, about how she no longer looks at Hibari the way she used to.

Your attention diverts to the grill, where Fuuta is cooking a fresh batch of hot dogs, concurrently conversing with Basil and Lal Mirch. You think about the college assignments he sometimes asks you for help with, the way he so masterfully quotes Descartes and Rilke.

It makes you wonder, _When did they grow up?_ It makes you wonder when _you_ grew _old._

And then, your sister's voice startles you out of your ruminations. "You shouldn't play with your food, Hayato."

You utterly _hate_ when she does that - sneak up on you the way she used to when you were kids, when you'd mistakenly believed a musty closet, an untrimmed hedge, or a wine cellar were secure enough to stay her attempts to poison you. You thoroughly _despise_ the way she's looming over you right now, like bad weather and bad news.

Her slender eyebrows draw together ever so slightly in a tiny frown - a subtle movement, intense as a wrecking ball crushing concrete. "What's _with_ you? You don't look like you're having fun."

"I'm fine," you lie, knowing she'll see right through your bullshit, but unable to stop yourself anyway.

Your sister's frown deepens, and _that's_ like the sting of a thousand angry scorpions, no antidote in sight. _"Hayato - "_

You rise from your seat so abruptly, you succeed in splendidly upsetting your chair and your meal. _"I said, I'm fine!"_ You have to get out of here, because - gods _above_ \- you do _not_ want to have this conversation with her.

So you ignore the shocked stares, the calls of your own name, and dart into the back door which leads to the kitchen - only to run straight into Yamamoto who's on his way out. The bottle he's holding slips from his grip, splinters into a million tiny shards.

You don't stop to apologize, to help him clean up; just keep barreling forward. "Fucking _move!_ "

He _doesn't._ Instead, he grabs your arm; not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to hold you in place. "Gokudera!"

You growl truculently, green eyes glinting murder. _"Let. the fuck. **go.** "_

Yamamoto's grip tightens - _this_ time, it's hard enough to hurt. "What's _wrong_ with you? You've been acting weird since last night."

You can't answer him. The truth is, you don't really know what to say. So you turn your head, glare at the top of your leather shoe as if it's deliberately withholding your reply.

The death grip on your arm disappears. Yamamoto _doesn't._ "Hey," he says, in that tone that makes something like pleasant warmth coil in your stomach, something like electricity that doesn't burn skitter up and down your spine.

And you _look_ at him, even though you know you _shouldn't_ \- because his eyes are amber pools of empathy, concern, and... and _something indescribable_ that makes you consent to whatever he's about to say, even without knowing what it's gonna be.

_"Walk with me."_

\--

It's not like it's a big secret - the way he feels about you.

He's hinted - maybe even said it outright, once or twice - before, you've always brushed him off. Sometimes, you pretend like you didn't really hear whatever he had to say.

He'd drop it, won't pursue the matter. It's times like those you're not quite sure if it's all a big damn joke to him. That's actually what you fear the most - that he doesn't _mean_ it. You _want_ him to mean it. You can't believe you _do._

The thing about Yamamoto Takeshi is, you don't _get_ him. Sometimes. _Most_ of the time. 

He treats almost everything like it's a game; but you _know_ what a _game_ means to _him,_ of all people.

And it's not like he's incapable of keeping a secret, or being subtle. He _is_ \- first and foremost - Vongola's Rain, and its finest assassin; the very embodiment of subtlety itself.

But often, he confuses you to the point of lamentable aggravation (and it aggravates you _more_ that you're aggravated), like when he tells you he _likes_ you... and stops right _there._

Or like _right now,_ walking along the beach by your side - close enough to twine your fingers together if you wanted to, far enough to appear more _friendly_ than _intimate_ \- in complete silence; starkly at odds with his usual voluble self.

And the fact is, if there's _one_ thing you really can't stand in this world, it's _silence._

You've always thought that cliché, _deafening silence,_ was fucking dumb. It isn't the _silence_ that's deafening, it's the way it makes _everything else_ too fucking loud.

Like the sound of seawater breaking upon rock and shore. The cadence of your bare feet against white, white sand and the footprints you leave behind like a fade out.

You hate how the silence makes you so acutely _aware_ of everything - like Yamamoto's scent ( _rich,_ as the earth), the way he breathes ( _equanimous,_ as a man of absolute faith), his presence ( _warm_ and _reassuring,_ as a security blanket).

It makes you fucking _crazy,_ the way he's so... _loud_ and _present,_ even when he isn't saying a word. And here's the thing - you want him to _just. fucking. **stop.**_

So you scowl in his general direction - something like murder, something like the serrated edge of a rusty blade - and demand, "Why the fucking _fuck_ won't you _say_ something?!?" You'd probably kick a pebble for emphasis if you weren't shoeless, and if you had a much steadier foothold.

Yamamoto - _bastard_ that he is - laughs as if you'd just said something hilarious. He doesn't stop or look at you, just keeps strolling lazily with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black pants. His tone bears inflections which indicate that he'd expected your outburst. "Do I _have_ to?"

Reflexively, your fingers curl into tight fists at your sides. You valiantly resist the urge to punch him, all the while thinking, _the Tenth would not approve._ So instead, you irritably growl, _"Yes!"_

And he _chuckles,_ fucking _gall_ of him; looks at you sideways the same way Mukuro did at breakfast, only it's not at _all_ creepy. There's mirth and - dare you _think_ it? - something like _adoration_ sparkling in his large, beer-colored eyes. His countenance carries with it a knowing look, although you're not quite sure what it is _exactly_ that he knows. "You don't always have to fill the silence, Gokudera. Just, y'know... _feel_ it."

 _ **Feel** the silence,_ he says. What the fuck does that even _mean?_

Yamamoto stops walking, grabs your wrist to hold you in place. Gently, he guides you till you're facing him and, just as if he's reading your mind - or is it your _heart?_ \- he says, "Here. I'll show you."

You wonder if he's gonna do something weird _(push you into the ocean? pull you closer? kiss you?)_ and if you should do anything in response _(punch him in the nose? shove him away? kiss him back?),_ but he only takes two steps backwards, tells you, "Close your eyes."

You don't know if you're tremendously relieved or bitterly disappointed. But neither is an emotion you wish him to see, so instead, you fold your arms over your chest and demand crossly, "What the hell _for?_ "

Yamamoto smiles - nothing at all like that idiotic grin he used to wear as a teenager, that made you want to constantly smack him, strangle him, or _blow him up_ \- as if he understands something you _don't;_ seemingly content, like a man who's just found his own cozy little corner in this fucked up world. "It heightens the rest of your senses."

"You know that's all _bullshit,_ right?" you reply, just to be difficult, but do as you're told anyway.

You're not quite sure what it is he wants you to feel. But you don't want to look like an idiot by asking, so all you can do is wait. You wait and wait and _wait,_ and at first, nothing happens that isn't already happening. 

But then, something _does._

And it's not some kind of mind-blowing epiphany, or a magnificent explosion like sparks igniting behind your eyelids, a lightbulb moment or whatever the _fuck_ shit like that's _called._ In fact, it's more akin to a _"That's it???"_ sensation, like waking up from breast augmentation surgery only to discover you don't need to go up a cup size, cos they're really not _that_ big at all.

Not that you _want_ implants or anything.

What it _is_ is more like a sense of _settling down_ \- of the turmoil inside you gradually easing into nothingness, into what might be called _peace_ or _hope_ or _everything's gonna be okay._ And it feels like _home,_ better than any cigarette, than any measure of _freedom._

When you open your eyes, Yamamoto's still there, smiling in a way that reads, _Ah, you **get** it._ He's only two feet away from you, but somehow, he feels much, _much_ closer.

\--

You remember this movie you saw once, where a guy spoke about how his lover makes his heart beat faster and slower at the same time.

You always thought that was fucking _stupid._

You don't anymore.

\--

The first thing to do, you decide, upon returning to the beach house, is to apologize to the Tenth for the disturbance you caused at lunch.

It's an effortless thing, finding him. The door to the underground den is slightly ajar. From it, the sound of music emanates, mingled with the melodic tune of the Tenth's cheerful laughter.

You cautiously - _noiselessly_ \- peek into the room.

On the far left is an antique upright piano upon which your sister plays a lively jazz song. Reborn - elbow casually resting on the piano top, crystal glass of whiskey in his hand - stands watching her, tiny smile ghosting over his shadowed face.

In the middle of the living room, Ryouhei is slow-dancing with Kurokawa Hana, blatantly ignoring the beat and staring at each other with love-struck expressions that make you want to retch.

Next to them, the Tenth is twirling Sasagawa Kyouko, dipping her like those suave guys do in the movies. _She's_ laughing, too - this light, airy thing that makes the Tenth's dark brown irises glow like lit fuses in a pitch dark night.

And it's in _this_ moment that it hits you - that in all the years you've known him, you've _never_ seen the Tenth as happy as when he looks at _her._

He _needs_ her - needs _that_ \- more than he could possibly need _you._ Because Sasagawa Kyouko gives him _everything_ you can't.

The music draws to a close, you leave before anyone has the chance to notice you.

\--

_Squalo's hair has grown too long._

That is the first thought that crosses your mind, in auto-response to the sight that greets you when you walk into the brightly illuminated living room. It's a difficult sight to ignore - thick silver strands curling everywhere, Xanxus's hand buried in them.

Xanxus, as he is wont to do, pays you no mind; attention riveted entirely by the book - _brain-breakingly_ titled, _How To Fill The Donut Hole and Other Stories (Special Edition),_ and dear _God,_ you most certainly do _not_ want to know - he is intently perusing. The fingers of his right hand ceaselessly card through his lover's lustrous mane - even from where you stand, it's easy to spot the gentleness with which he does so.

Squalo is lying as long as he is on the off-white couch, evidently fast asleep and using Xanxus's lap as his pillow. You wonder why he doesn't cut that hair. You've heard the story (Yamamoto always shares too much, _too much_ ) - a ridiculous vow for an even _more_ ridiculous impossibility. You wonder if he's learned to like it, if _Xanxus_ feels the futility of his dreams every time he looks at it.

You've heard people say that someone is usually their most vulnerable during slumber. Only, Squalo doesn't look _vulnerable,_ just _serene,_ and - expressionless visage notwithstanding - oddly _happy._

It is a _bizarre_ picture - the kind Yamamoto often paints of them; impossible to reconcile with what you so steadfastly _believe._ So you plop yourself down on the opposing armchair with all the grace of a rabid pit bull and helpfully point out the obvious. "People can _see_ you, y'know?"

Xanxus snorts softly, doesn't stop reading. "And I care, _why?_ "

 _Gods **above,**_ he truly _is_ a bastard. And annoying as _fuck._ "Doesn't that _bother_ you?"

"No."

Gotta hand it to him. Xanxus - better than anyone you know - has perfected the art of _don't give a flying fuck._ It makes you want to shove a blade into his gut, push it upwards, and _twist._

But you _haven't_ got any blades on hand, so you settle for a hard glare which you hope is just as sharp. "Well why the fuck _not?!?_ "

Xanxus _finally_ looks at you - stares at you over the rim of his reading glasses as if you're a dumb shit. _"Because,"_ he intones drily; matter-of-factly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "I'm not ashamed of him."

\--

"I'm not technically _inside,_ " you say, maybe a _tad_ too defensively, when Yamamoto catches you chain-smoking on the balcony of your bedroom, cigarette butts and ash littered incriminatingly at your feet.

Yamamoto raises his hands placatingly, smiles in a way which you suppose is meant to reassure you, but only ends up making you more nervous. "Don't worry, I won't tell." He saunters over to the balustrade and turns around, hands bracing upon the solid stone surface. Then, he lifts and seats himself atop the smooth structure, graceful and agile as a feline.

From where you stand, you can hear the roar of the ocean; see stars upon stars in the sky, like a blanket of diamonds, of eyes on fire. You can feel Yamamoto watching _you._ It's _unsettling,_ this attention - not necessarily a _bad_ thing, but you've yet to figure out if it's any _good._

Things have _changed,_ somehow, ever since the walk on the beach this afternoon, although you don't quite get how _much_ can change within just a few hours. Unable to find answers to questions you don't really want asked, you rapidly search for a distraction. 

You find it, in the form of your pack of Hope cigarettes, which you hold out to Yamamoto in silent offering. _Watch something else. Anything but **me.**_

Yamamoto smiles, but doesn't take it. Instead, he fishes into his inner jacket pocket, produces a compact, gold-plated case. It is finely burnished, gleams like clean white teeth in TV commercials; not a smudge or fingerprint in sight, despite the innumerable times he's used it - a testament to how much he treasures that little box. On it, his name is engraved - minuscule characters on the bottom right corner, you almost have to _squint_ to see it. He shakes it casually, smile morphing into a full-on grin. "Got my own."

You can't help but dramatically roll your eyes. _"Classy."_

Yamamoto winks. "I have my moments." He pulls a cigarette out of the case, slips it easily between his lips. "Could use a light, though."

You hand over your Zippo, smirking. "Ran out of lighter fluid?"

Yamamoto accepts it, ignites his death stick. " _Squalo_ did," he answers around the barrel, passes your lighter back. "He stole _mine._ "

Squalo's name makes your forehead crease with a pronounced frown - more of a conditioned reflex, than out of any real displeasure. You've learned over years to be apathetic about their relationship - Squalo and Yamamoto's bond is something you've quit trying to fathom long ago; packed it into a neat little box and stored in that faraway portion of your mind labeled _Don't Go There._

Yamamoto chuckles - doesn't bother to explain _why_ \- and takes a deep drag of his cigarette, exhales clouds upon clouds of dark smoke, as if trying to make up for the lack of _real_ ones in the sky. The fingers of his left hand rest idly upon the balustrade, mere inches from where you're leaning.

Your gaze engrossedly traverses the line of his hand, studies the shape of it - broad and tanned and steady. You quietly observe his neatly clipped nails, his attractively long fingers, and the rough mounds of his knuckles; the thin scar that runs right down the middle of his thumb and pointer. Your eyes follow the subtle blue lines of his veins beneath his flesh, the curve of fine dark hairs that run down the back of his hand, disappears at the juncture where his shirt cuff meets his wrist.

You _wonder_ about that hand. How many baseball bats it has gripped. How many times those fingers have curled around the hilt of a sword. How often it has dispensed comfort, how many lives it has taken. You wonder about the calluses on its fingers and its palm, the warmth of its skin, how it would feel if it touched - 

_"Hey."_

Yamamoto's voice jolts you out of your reverie, shocks you bad enough that you almost drop your cigarette. You hastily try to school your features into your best poker face before looking up at him, eyes holding your tacit question.

Yamamoto reaches over, gently taps your shoulder with two fingers. "You don't have to carry the burden all by yourself, y'know. It's okay to lean on others, sometimes."

You didn't see _that_ one coming. The thing about Yamamoto is, he throws a lot more metaphorical curveballs than he does literal ones.

You stub out your half-smoked cigarette on the balustrade and sigh; part debilitating exhaustion, part hair-pulling frustration. "It isn't a _burden,_ exactly." Your fingers run themselves over and over through your hair, as if searching for something that's impossible to find. "It's just... not being asked to _do_ anything, feeling _unneeded,_ having nothing to _worry_ about - it's... _weird,_ y'know?"

It is only when those words slip from your lips that you realize what it is you just said. The preposterousness of it all makes you laugh out loud, but there's no ounce of mirth in it. "I sound like a crazy person, don't I?"

Yamamoto smirks around the barrel of his cigarette, in a way that's eerily reminiscent of Rokudou Mukuro. "Actually, _yeah._ " He draws the cancer stick from his mouth, points it at you. "But... I know what you mean."

Your eyes widen perceptibly at that, indubitably surprised. You'd expected him to mock you, or look at you with uncomprehending sympathy.

Yamamoto ashes his cigarette, gives you this _look_ which you see only when he's trying to tell you something important. "Last night, I couldn't sleep. I didn't know _how._ That's why I read, instead." His wide shoulders lift in a small shrug. "It _found_ me, eventually. I guess it comes to you when you stop trying so hard to figure it out."

It _floors_ you, really; knowing that he _gets_ it. Gets _you._ Realizing that he's got _more_ in common with you than you thought. For the first time in what feels like _eons,_ you have no idea what to say.

But _Yamamoto_ does. He smiles - this bright, eye-curving thing that pretty much _screams, **I'm here for you,**_ like a Vegas neon sign. "I know you already know this but, you can talk to me." He gets off the balustrade, flicks his cigarette onto the floor and puts it out with his shoe. "Gokudera," Yamamoto says, in his best _shut up and listen_ voice. "You should have learned a long time ago that you're not alone."

\--

 _It's over,_ you think (somewhat _despairingly,_ somewhat _relieved_ ), stabbing at the slab of butterflied lamb on your bone china plate. _This is the last feast._

Tomorrow, it's back to the banality of that thing called your _life._ Anyone who thinks the Mafiosi have immunity from _mediocrity_ doesn't know shit. _Everyone_ inevitably gets stuck in the Möbius strip of routines. That's what life fucking _is._

And _yet._

And yet, _everything's_ changed. Maybe you can't give voice to the words rolling about somewhere in the back of your muddled brain, the words which are lodged in your throat like a handful of pebbles, hanging off the tip of your tongue like a rock-climber who's lost his footing.

Maybe you can't - in this very moment, maybe in _all_ the ones coming - articulate _how_ you feel; but you _know,_ with unchallengeable surety, that you _do,_ indeed, _feel_ this.

Whatever the fuck _this_ is.

But you _get_ it. You _do._

Because what _this_ really _is,_ is _everything._

It's the way the Tenth laughs and laughs, the way his entire frame radiates alacrity and unconstrained _joy._

It's Xanxus and Mukuro communicating in a language only _they_ understand, the way Squalo tries, ineffectually, to hide his smile.

It's Chrome chatting and giggling with I-Pin, Haru, and Kyouko; all trace of her erstwhile shyness no longer evident, it's hard to believe she'd ever been timid at all.

It's Hibari, quietly sipping tea in a corner, no word of _crowding_ and _biting everyone to death_ escaping his lips.

It is toast after giddy toast, an endless collection of bad jokes, and unceasing raucous laughter.

And _Yamamoto._

It's him, _all_ of him. The way he walks by behind you, briefly rests his hand upon your shoulder, before seating himself by your side at the dinner table.

On your left, your sister looks at you, trying to disguise the concern brimming in her eyes. "Still not hungry, Hayato?"

You send her the subtlest of smiles - _apologetic, reassuring._ "I'm fine, _Aneki,_ " you respond, making a show of slicing the lamb and popping a piece into your mouth, while thinking about something else entirely.

_I'm gonna be okay._

\--

But _this_ is how it _really_ ends, or - more accurately - _begins._

You're wondering what time it is. It's late - close to midnight, or maybe it's already Sunday morning. Somewhere along the shoreline, the Tenth is strolling with his wife; Ryouhei and Hana, Haru, Lambo, and I-Pin accompanying them. You know this because he asked if you would join them. You'd taken one look at where you are and politely declined.

 _Where you are_ is sitting on a log on the beach, close enough to witness the rolling waves, far enough to keep from getting wet. In front of you is a lively campfire, on the other side of it - sitting on a misshapen log of his own - is Yamamoto.

 _He'd_ declined, too - though probably not for the same reasons _you_ did. 

You? Well, _you'd_ glanced at Kyouko hanging on the Tenth's arm, Ryouhei's arm curved tightly around Hana's waist, and figured you were better off staying put. Everyone looked so damn _happy,_ it made your chest hurt.

So you're here, sitting across the fire with Yamamoto's eyes on you - you can _feel_ it, even in those moments when you don't _dare_ look at him. Maybe it could be _romantic_ \- like that movie with the two cowboys and the chicks who got topless - if you weren't so busy trying to fight off that ache in that place where your heart's supposed to be; that pang of what might be known as _loneliness_ twisting agonizingly in your gut, like a too-sharp blade.

Maybe it _would_ be romantic, if Xanxus and Squalo weren't here.

They're sitting on the sand on Yamamoto's side - Xanxus looking very, _very_ lazy, and Squalo picking at the strings on Yamamoto's acoustic guitar, as if he's trying to teach himself to play it. It makes a _godawful_ sound - so discordant with the rhythm of the sea and the cicadas' song - that it makes you want to grab that instrument and break it over his head. It's a good thing he hasn't started _singing_ yet.

Squalo's dressed in a salmon-colored plaid shirt - unbuttoned and draped over another t-shirt of _another_ obscure rock band like a jacket - which you _know_ you've seen on Yamamoto a million times before. You're not sure if he's copying Yamamoto's style or stealing it right out of his closet. Judging by its size, you're pretty sure it's the latter.

That bugs the everloving _fuck_ out of you, and you don't even know _why._ You just wish he'd stop stealing Yamamoto's stuff.

Squalo's coffee board shorts are frayed at the edges, as if sawn off a lengthier pair of pants, revealing shins which are too thin and too pale. He isn't even _pretty,_ and yet, Xanxus - according to Yamamoto - thinks he's the most beautiful thing in the world.

You don't get how two people so _fucked up_ can come to find such unbridled passion, such heart-warming solace - _redemption_ \- in each other; and you _hate, hate, **hate**_ how you _envy_ them for it.

If _like_ attracts _like,_ shouldn't they have crashed and burned a long time ago?

And it isn't _just_ them - it's nearly _everyone_ in your Famiglia, and you wonder how they can _give_ and _love_ so selflessly, and not run out. Conversely, they _thrive._ And it fucking _scares_ you that some infinitesimal, heretofore unacknowledged part of you might _want_ this too.

Xanxus leans over, says something in Squalo's ear - it's not a _whisper,_ exactly, but you can't hear what's being said anyway. Whatever it is has Squalo grinning like a mad, mad thing. He hands the guitar back to Yamamoto and rises (Xanxus already on his feet), dusts the sand off his clothes.

Then, they're walking away - Xanxus's hand on Squalo's shoulder, guiding him in the direction opposite from the Tenth.

Now it's _really_ just you and Yamamoto. 

And the thing is, you _know_ you should probably get up and leave too, but his _eyes_ \- hypnotic like the swing of a pendulum, engaging like witty riposte - have you rooted where you are. 

He smiles, languidly rubs the scar on his chin. "Hey."

Your eyebrows lift inquiringly. "What?"

Yamamoto lifts the guitar a little, cocks his spiky-haired head towards it. "I wrote you a song."

Well, _this_ is new. It's not like he's never played for you before, but... those times weren't really _for_ you.

Yamamoto scratches his chin, clears his throat, and _that's_ when you realize he's actually - _endearingly_ \- _nervous._ He taps the spruce soundboard of his cherished Les Paul. "You wanna, maybe, _hear_ it?" 

You nod, curiosity speedily sinking its claws into you like a certain recalcitrant cat. "Sure."

Truth is, _you're_ pretty nervous yourself. And - just like so many other things in your life - you have no idea _why._ It's just... this _atmosphere_ \- _electrified,_ like the world in the midst of a tumultuous storm, like that breath-bating moment when the hero rises after a massive beatdown in those really bad action movies.

It makes you want to run away. It makes you want to never, ever leave.

You watch the way Yamamoto strums the song's opening, the elegant way his fingers dance along the fretboard, fluidly forming chord after chord. You watch the way he's watching - _always_ watching - _you,_ so much like, _I **want** you,_ too damn much like, _Want **me,** too._

And when he starts to sing - _If I'm ramblin' I'm guilty for wearin' my heart on my sleeve_ \- you have to turn your gaze away.

You watch the way the flames move instead. The way _they_ dance - _ferocious,_ like an untamed beast, _teasing,_ like an alluring coquette. You observe the way it consumes the wood, feeds and rages upon itself. You inhale camphor, the earth, the ocean. You imbibe it all, green-eyed gaze completely entranced by orange and yellow and red.

And you _listen._ Shutting everything out till there's nothing but the flames and the rich, mellifluous timbre of Yamamoto's voice.

_Baby, you look down tonight_

_Something's wrong and that ain't right_

_I hear you talking in your sleep_

_I wanna dive in your dreams_

_And wrap my loving arms around you_

_Protect you when the waves crash down_

_When you're lost and you're scared_

_I'll be the air_

And when you listen, you realize something - the song isn't just _for_ you, it's _about_ you.

_When it hurts_

_When you doubt_

_When it burns_

_Let it out_

_When you give_

_When you love_

_When you live_

_When you touch_

_If all that we've got is each other_

_Then all that we've got is a lot_

And this thing - this gargantuan, indescribable _thing._ It permeates your _soul,_ slithers and coils around it like a serpent swallowing its own tail, gradually stitches everything back together till it's not as good as it used to be, but maybe that's so much _better._ It makes you want to laugh till your sides split like a victim in a tacky horror movie, cry so fucking _hard_ that you forget how to _breathe._

It's so fucking _stifling,_ overwhelming you like a tsunami, and you're so scared - but desperately _want_ \- to surrender to it.

It _hurts,_ the way the flames are making your eyes burn, and when you turn away, you find that Yamamoto's _right next to you_ and so fucking _there._

You don't know when he stopped singing, when he moved, how long he's been watching you - but none of that matters, because he's suddenly cupping your face and _kissing_ you like the world's already reaching its catastrophic end.

You can _feel_ it - the warmth and gentleness of his callused palms, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, every line and curve of his pliant mouth. And the _kiss_ \- it's nothing like that shit in soppy fairy tales, in saccharine pop songs. It's just... _quiet,_ like a prayer, _reverent,_ like an old church song. It's so much like a rhythmic heartbeat - _**I** need you, I **need** you._

And so, you kiss him back; arms going around his neck and pulling him closer, fingers tangling into those rough hairs at his nape, as if you'd _die_ if you let him go. Your tongue parts his mouth further, tastes his lower lip, his teeth, his tongue, the roof of his mouth; desperate, hungry, _fierce,_ like a ravenous wolf.

 _This,_ you think, _is the sweetest thing in all the world._

And when you stop (as much as you _resent_ it, as much as you don't _want_ to, but _goddamn it,_ you need to fucking _breathe_ ), he's staring at you - part surprised amusement, part unremitting desire adorning his handsome face. He brushes his knuckles against your cheek, tucks a tendril of fair hair behind your ear, and smiles like he's the luckiest guy in the universe. "Hey," he begins, chuckling lightly, "I'm not complaining or anything, but why _now?_ "

 _Why,_ indeed. 

His question makes you think about all the things you've had right in front of you for too damn _long,_ but which you've never really thought about till _now._

Like the way Colonello often teases Lal Mirch, how mad she gets at him for it, and the telling blush frequently coloring her cheeks which belies her castigations.

Like the way Mukuro frequently drapes himself all over Hibari like an impeccably tailored coat, and how Hibari never pushes him away.

You think about the passionate letters your father wrote your mother, the same ardor your sister inherited, with which she'd move _worlds_ for Reborn. 

Like Ryouhei and Hana, the way they look at each other like no one else is _important_ enough, the way their hands always find each other's, fitting together like those friendship necklaces you've seen schoolgirls wear.

You think about walking by Xanxus and Squalo's bedroom, the quiet sounds of lovemaking floating out from the other side of their door.

And you think about the Tenth, the battered charm he still carries in his pocket, the renewed strength it engenders in him, even in his most trying moments.

But it's all _too much_ \- too many answers for just _one_ question. So you grin at Yamamoto - large and bright, like the ones you give the Tenth - and simply say, _"Why not?"_


End file.
